


reversals

by blueincandescence



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: AU, F/M, Prompt Fill, TMFU (2015) Remix
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 18:16:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8171170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueincandescence/pseuds/blueincandescence
Summary: Gavriella Nikolaevna Kuryakina is the KGB's best agent. Illyas Teller is an East German mechanic whose frayed family ties have roped him into Cold War politics.





	1. turn

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt [anonymous]:** What about if Illya and Gaby's roles were reversed? Gaby is Russian and the KGB's best agent while Illya is an East German mechanic.
> 
> Another imaginegallya prompt fill! These are supposed to be one-shots, but I cannot be trusted with brevity. Will be cross-posted when complete.

•••

The American agent is simpler to neutralize than he could possibly believe of himself. That pride is what Gavriella Nikolaevna Kuryakina exploits. She hires a West Berliner prostitute to slip her hand up his thigh, a sedative in his drink. The CIA’s most effective agent notices at once, of course, and does the easiest thing, of course. He grins like a snake charmer as the woman drinks from the wrong glass.

He’s leading the swaying, Slavic-looking beauty out of the hotel bar for interrogation when Gavy bumps into him. _"Oh, oh, stop that American!"_  she cries in German from the back exit. _"I saw him put something in the woman’s drink!"_ She is gone before the table full of off-duty policemen find the vial of ketamine powder in Napoleon Solo’s trouser pocket. He will submit to the arrest thinking he has foiled the Russians and spend at least the night in custody; according to her intelligence, Solo’s handler likes to watch him twist.

It is second nature to Gavy to make capital of the foibles of the male ego. She has built her career on the backs of the men who underestimate and undermine her. Breaking them, if need be, to become the KGB’s best.

•••

What her plan has bought her is time with the mark. Illyas Schmidt, East German auto mechanic. Real name Teller, son of Udo, Hitler’s favorite rocket scientist. An East Berliner, he could have been snatched by Stasi a week ago when his father resurfaced in Rome. But Oleg chose to wait for the family to reach out and for Gavy to finish in Kiev.

 _‘No one turns a mark like you do.’_ Oleg had smirked with proprietary glee through a drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling in the projector light.

Gavy studied Illyas Teller’s even, hardened features, mapping them onto the file she memorized on the train. He is an Aryan specimen, blond-haired, blue-eyed and standing at an even two meters. Thirty-one, unmarried despite his looks and steady employ. Two years obligatory military service. Noted temper. Minor altercations with the Stasi over illegal street racing and unregistered car parts. He taught judo lessons in West Berlin, before the Wall, and buried his foster father around the same time.

Illyas Teller is an angry man, Gavy reasoned, and a lonely one. She will appeal to both aspects.

The slides flickered through shots of Napoleon Solo.

 _‘Kill him if necessary,’_ Oleg said, emphasizing his orders with two fingers. _‘But he must not help the son.’_

Her mind, so contrary, reversed the edict. Ran through a slideshow of possibility. Phase two of the mission could use a patsy, the more ostentatious the better. The trick would be properly incentivizing such a man while ensuring the German’s loyalties. A fragile sort of manipulation to pull off under threat of nuclear holocaust.

America teaming up with Russia. She revisits the notion as she crosses through Checkpoint Charlie. Sounds friendly. Just the kind of bold alternative Gavy likes having tucked away for her own survival. Within the year, Oleg has made it clear he will promote her or he will bury her.

Within the year, she has promised herself she will have that power over him.

•••

A block from the mark’s garage, Gavy rams the back of a Trabant into a parked tank. Illyas is the only person on the scene. He sprints over to throw open her door and crouch beside her to offer his assistance. The cut she sliced on her temple waylays any questions he might have. He sops up the blood with the kerchief that has been holding back her bangs. Dazed and weak, she lets him half-carry her into the quiet garage.

She turns desperate when he mentions phoning the police, taking her to a hospital. So he fetches her water and watches her drink. There is a self-consciousness to him she did not expect; he would rather hunch below her than tower above her. He doesn’t touch her unless helpfulness dictates, but his clear eyes dart to and from her face so often a lesser woman would be dizzy with it. Her skirt is hiked up one thigh, causing Illyas no small amount of turmoil.

Alarm makes him reveal his stolen glances. _"You’re trembling."_

Lashes sticky with unshed tears, she gives him the brave smile he must want to see. _"I was very scared."_ The German vowels trip from her tongue. Subtlety is her trade.

The past tense is not lost on him. Underneath thick coveralls, his chest somehow broadens. _"It’s okay,"_ he reassures her.

She shakes her head, letting a muffled sob cover the sound of the paper she draws from her purse. While he reads, she slides a long-range listening device under the bottom of the chair.

The furrow in his brow gets deeper with each looping word: _Your garage is bugged. The Occupiers are coming for you. They want you for your father_. Anger clouds his handsome face.

Gavy closes a steadying hand around his wrist. Enunciates, " _Thank you for your help,"_ while holding meaningful eye contact.

 _"I will tow in your car,"_ he says, not as stiff as she feared. He might actually be more use than liability in Rome. " _And call you a taxi."_

 _"At this hour?"_ She shudders.

_"No. I will drive you home myself."_

Her gratitude turns him red and gruff. He is warier now, but she seems to have lost little of his sympathy.

The way his file detailed his incidents of temper, she prepared for reluctance if not overt hostility. Not manners, not care. How like the rest of the KGB, so caught up in sin, to disregard the strategic advantages of virtue.

•••

At the KGB safehouse she directs Illyas to, she assures him they will not be overheard and proceeds to weave a story that is all the more convincing because it is true. Apart from Gabriella’s supposed West German allegiance.  

Gavy lets Illyas clean the scrape at her temple while she talks. He blows on the wound before placing a plaster over it, and the shiver that action elicits isn’t feigned. Shutting down internally, externally she blinks widely at him, then past him. As if she’s just realized she is alone in her flat with a strange man twice her size.

Illyas backs away, returning to the kitchen where she put the kettle on. She won’t seduce him. He seems the type who can be led far more effectively by yearning.

Over tea and a stilted discussion of his father’s work and the world at stake, she watches his hands. Stained with oil. Big, to suit the rest of him, but not clumsy. Their movements are precise when they are not overcome by his quick temper. They were cool on her skin, even as his core radiated warmth.

 _"I’m not sure I could be of help even if I wanted to,"_ Illyas is saying, and her attention snaps back to this, the most vital part of her mission. " _My uncle is displeased with me. He thinks I turned my back on the von Trüsch family name when I chose to stay with my foster father. He was ailing."_

Gavy makes a noise of comfort, staring into her tea to avoid scrutinizing Illyas to the level she would like. She knows from letters intercepted by the Stasi that this fight happened two years ago. That Illyas lost his chance to leave East Berlin and his foster father almost simultaneously. Yet he has justified his choice without bitterness. He believes staying was the right thing to do, even though all evidence points to him hating his life here, hating the Russian occupation. That hatred was her lever and now he’s given her another. She almost smiles. The right thing to do. Imagine.

 _"Every man needs heirs,"_ she tells him. " _So you bring a good German girl to him in Rome."_ She infuses humility into that description of herself. " _The daughter of a prominent family. He will welcome you with open arms. We keep our ears open, and we let the BND do the rest. Easy."_

 _"The daughter of a prominent family wants to marry a mechanic?"_ He tuts. Can’t even look at her.

She reaches out, tentative, to cover his hand. Blue eyes lift to hers with a glacial slowness. _"Any rich girl worth her salt would know quality when she sees it."_ The bloom of color at his throat is so tempting Gavy has to make herself sit back, act surprised by her own boldness.

Illyas’s exhale is measured. Thumbing at a spot of oil on his knuckle, he says, _"My father was no Nazi like my uncle."_ He sounds so reluctant to disappoint. _"But that does not mean I want anything to do with him."_

She hums, sipping her tea. “Herr Teller — "

“Illyas.”

Smiling as if charmed despite herself by his grumble, she says, “Gaby.”

That earns her a twinge of a smile in return. Her tactic was going to be to escalate the shy contact. She underestimated the tenor of his loneliness. He wants to know her. Gabriella, that is.

 _"My father also wronged me."_ A truth this time, not one she indulges in lightly but nothing less than authenticity will do. _"I am ashamed of his crimes. And what my mother had to do in his absence."_ She takes a shuddering breath. His gaze is on the back of her knuckles, instinct to return comfort despite his upbringing. _"But I am not my father. I do what I do because it is right."_

As she knew it would, the lie kindles something earnest in the flame of Illyas’s excusable anger, his interest in Gabriella. The lie dampens the rush of power Gavy is used to feeling. Her contrary mind again. What if she were the type of woman who did?

She’d be dead, she supposes.

Insisting Illyas sleep on the decision he’s already made to assist the BND, she also insists he stay in her flat to avoid the Stasi, in her bed because he is too large for her couch. The fuss he makes in the name of gallantry is no match for her resolve. She sprays perfume on the pillows she fluffs and pictures him gentling down his blond head on a dip in the pillow he will think belongs to her.

Illyas takes up the entire doorframe hesitating at the threshold. His, “Gute Nacht,” is in-drawn, catching her scent as she brushes by. He smells of the soap he used to rub his fingers raw scrubbing away the motor oil.

Her goodnight is brisker than is best for her objective.

It has been too long since she’s played an innocent, in any sense. No matter. The mark is an asset now and primed to fall for Gabriella of the BND. No one turns a mark like Gavy does.

When she is sure Illyas is asleep, she hollows out a place for a bug in the sole of his right shoe. Another bug goes in the seam of his brown suede jacket. Designer contraband, no doubt payment for a repair made with a part that fell off the back of a truck. Just criminal enough to be interesting.

Crossing the flat, she pauses at the half-open door and looks in on him. What did it mean that he didn’t close it? Not an invitation surely. He probably left it open so he could hear if Gabriella needed anything. The streetlamp lays a halo on his blond head. Really, how often does she get a mark who is anywhere close to her age, never mind with the face of an angel and the body of a powerlifter? She’ll arrange it so he’ll be the one doing the seducing, she decides. She isn’t the type to let good fortune go to waste.

Gavy lays on the couch, flat on her back. Illyas Teller would never touch her if he knew her, but that’s the business. She slides into an inky sleep. Dreams of the manor, her training. Plié, grand plié, en pointe, and how to kill a man in glissade en tourant.

•••


	2. ally

•••

Illyas places his weight on his feet sitting in the little woman’s little chair. She makes him a breakfast that is far tastier than anything he and his foster father ever came up with between themselves. How strange it had been to stand in a bathroom listening to someone else's morning routine again. In her oversized blue pajamas, Gaby moves like a dancer. Like a spy, he imagines, though he has really only known one.

Remembering not to scrape his fork on his plate, he devours the eggs and bacon set before him with what he hopes is demonstrable gratitude. The spices she has used are not typical of East Berlin. What a sacrifice she has made for the BND to live however briefly on this dreary side of the Wall.

He will help her. Illyas told her this before he sat down at her table to listen to the particulars of the mission she now shares. His instructions from the long line of shadows between himself and Waverly were to be on guard but flexible. The British judoka enthusiast-cum-naval intelligence officer should have left Illyas with a code word for just this situation. He doesn’t like hiding his allegiances from someone who placed herself in harm’s way to deliver him a warning.

The white plaster he put over her temple is stark against her sable-colored bangs. Head wounds bleed and feel worse than they are, Gott sei Dank. The scar will probably only be the size of the thumbnail she presses to the injury.

 _"I try not to be a vain woman,"_ she says, quarter-smile directed at the table.

Afraid his staring has been taken as a slight, he is too quick to say, " _No scar could lessen_ your _— "_  Illyas cannot stop the schoolboy flush. " _Kindness,"_ he finishes, jamming bread into his mouth. Avoiding women had seemed the sensible thing to do for the duration of this infernal wait. Self-denial has left him wrong-footed.

He risks a glance and is startled to see her blushing behind her teacup. Maybe all spies in East Berlin must isolate themselves as he has.

 _"The American agent,"_ he tries. " _I don’t understand. Why is the BND not working with the CIA? You, the French, the British are allies, yes?"_

Gaby shakes her head sharply, voice pitched in a low rasp. " _The Americans are occupiers, same as the Russians."_

Illyas forces down the memory of the things he did as a soldier in their army, the terrible relief he felt when the KGB dragged a neighbor from his home instead of him. " _Not the same."_

 _"Geopolitical alliances mean as much as pacts made in schoolyards."_ The conviction of tone reflects a worldly bitterness he hasn’t sensed from her. She is quick to soften under his concern. " _The Americans have better public relations, I will give them that."_

What has she done? What does she fear? Even weighed down as he is by his own secrets, he wants to take those memories from her. Unburden her delicate shoulders. She has only to look at him and he hopes she’ll let him.

•••

The American comes in the evening. He doesn’t introduce himself, just transitions smoothly from commenting on the 750cc engine Illyas upgraded to commandeering his desk chair to throwing an eighteen-year-old photo in his face. Napoleon Solo has a film star’s name and a film star’s attitude. He wears a suit that belongs on Park Avenue but swaggers like he just swung down from a horse.

The instant dislike Illyas takes to the caricature of a man makes it very easy to do what Gaby asked of him. “No,” he says to the offer of a trip over the Wall. “Thank you.”

“I don’t think you’re quite understanding the seriousness, mein guter Mann. The KGB are going to be the next to knock at your door. If they haven’t already.”

The warning tone makes him flick his gaze to the dented Trabant on the lift. Perturbed by the seed of unwarranted suspicion the American has sown, Illyas advances. “You are not needed here, Cowboy,” he grits out. Solo, by no means a small man, is still smaller than he. Most are.

The American stands his ground. “It was a woman. Perfect German. Beautiful.” He is guessing, has to be guessing, but Illyas twitches each time he hits the mark. “Blonde and willowy.”

Relief whooshes through him. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”

Solo pivots to rifle around Illyas’s desk. “A second woman.” His crinkled forehead lifts in epiphany. “Petite, dark.” His smile reflects triumph. “Throaty voice.” Bullseye. Satisfied, he goes back to his searching, moving to the underside of the desk. “I think I owe an apology to a young lady,” he says, more to himself. To Illyas, he says, “Now, did your woman arrive, oh, about half-past midnight? In that wrecked Trabant, perhaps? And you would have sat her down, both of you all atwitter, in this very chair.”

“She is not what you think.” It is all Illyas can do not to stutter. Solo’s fast-talking smirk, the pity. Illyas clenches his fists against it.

Solo holds aloft a clear device between his thumb and forefinger. “I know,” he counters with a patience reserved for the dull-witted, “that this is Russian-made. And so is your new girlfriend.”

His fists are shaking now. He would be hard-pressed to identify the object of his fury. Solo? The woman? His fascist uncle? His vanished father?

Plopping the bug into stale coffee, Solo continues, “Who is no doubt calling in her KGB comrades as we speak.” He rips off a map of the city. “So, unless you would rather spend the night with the Russians hanging from a pipe, having your toenails removed, I suggest we move.”

Illyas takes a blind swing at Solo, cracking him across the jaw. The American agent absorbs the punch, the momentum sending him crashing into the desk. Illyas grabs him into position for another go. His tiny voice of reason is asking him what this will accomplish even before Solo jams a pistol under Illya’s jaw.

Solo heaves a sigh. “I do so hate going up against female agents. It’s almost unfair.”

A throaty voice rings out from behind Illya. Undeniably familiar. Undeniably Russian. “In that case, may I make a suggestion?”

Illyas jerks around in Solo’s grip to face her. The woman who blushed for him in blue-checkered cotton stands impassive in a black skirt suit and matching gun. Whatever drove him to punch Solo is what mashes up his guts at the sight of her staring straight through him.

 _"Occupier,"_  he bites off. Not even a flinch.

“Let’s try for calm, hm?” The muzzle of Solo’s pistol presses on Illyas’s racing pulse. He backs them both toward a window. Five plainclothed KGB on this side alone. “Looks like you have earned the undivided attention of myself and Hans Bitterman here, baryshnya,” is Solo’s tight pronouncement.

“We are at an impasse,” she reasons. “And the world is at stake.” Extravagantly, the Russian agent suggests, “We could be partners.” She flashes her dimples and shoots them a wink, visibly enjoying their out-and-out shock.

•••

Just before sunup the next morning, Illyas locks the door to his foster father’s flat and places the key on the mat. One suitcase, three-quarters full, is all he is taking with him to the West. The contents of his cupboards he leaves in a box in front of his elderly neighbor’s door. He wishes he could have slipped in a note so Frau Möller does not worry. As few goodbyes as Illyas has, he is granted none by the two KGB agents keeping guard.

Collar up against a light rain, Illyas climbs into the back of a Wartburg 353.

For two years he has been trapped behind the Wall. One wave from a nameless KGB agent to a faceless Stasi guard at Checkpoint Charlie and Illyas is beyond it. Never to return, if the promise is kept on any side.

 _Geopolitical alliances mean as much as pacts_ _made in schoolyards,_ she said, then she stuck her hand through the Iron Curtain to shake on this doozy of an alliance.

Illyas laid awake thinking of her words, her vowels. Failed to remember any out of order. He let that exonerate him or he would have never gotten to sleep. But he knows better. Her flawless lies are no excuse for having memorized them.

Gavriella Kuryakina is a Soviet spy; if deceit wasn’t in her nature it has been trained into her. Illyas has suspected this of himself for some time and last night only confirmed it — he is a born sap who needed the lessons she provided. Never trust a woman too good to be true. And a promise from spies means nothing unless he can figure out how to hold them to it.

•••

The outdoor tea shop is milling with customers, but the KGB and the CIA talk freely. On one side is Napoleon Solo and his handler, Sanders. On the other is a Soviet named Oleg and a third iteration of Gavriella. Hair tied in a chic chignon underneath a Hermes scarf, this woman stepped off the glossy pages of the fashion magazines pubescent Ossi boys swap as pornography.

Illyas, seated at the head of the small table, follows the conversation back and forth between them. Hands jammed his pockets, he contributes nothing. He’s not much younger than Solo, but their tone makes it clear that he is a babe in the woods. It would rankle, except that here he sits, a British agent, with the world’s two major intelligence forces none the wiser.

Sanders taps a picture from the dossier. “We know that Mr. Teller here is not on the best of terms with Uncle Rudi, having declined his invitation to join the shipping business some years ago. But. Now there is a beautiful woman in the picture.” Sanders gestures to Gavriella, who tips her chin to accept the compliment. Vanity apparently not an issue for this version of her.

Oleg takes up the exposition where Sanders left off. “The daughter of a Russian architect visiting Rome on behalf of the Minister of Culture. The architect will be caught up the whole trip.” Oleg makes a regretful gesture toward to himself, then lays his palm on top of Gavriella’s knuckles. “To make it up to his beloved girl, he secures a visa for her East German fiance. Who must feel a great pressure to impress her.” The old man’s fingers glide across Gavriella’s skin as he removes his hand.

A table full of spies. No one misses the hitch in Illyas’s stare, but no one reacts to it, either.

Except Solo. “There’s a good man.” The condescending grin is in place. “Already in character.”

Inside his jacket pockets, Illya’s hands tighten. In defiance of the drizzle, dark sunglasses obscure most of Gavriella’s face, giving no proof to the feeling that Illyas has of being scrutinized down to his pores.

He could object to being cast as her fiance, he thinks. He could demand different agents. His freedom — his life, knowing his uncle, the company he keeps — is in the hands of a man he can’t fathom never punching again and a woman who has all but promised to betray him. Only demanding the best agents in the KGB and the CIA be taken off his case would probably not fall under Waverly’s definition of flexible.

Still. He has leverage.

“With Americans and Russians around, the one person my uncle will not suspect is me.”

“That’s the idea,” Sanders states.

“He may wonder if I am fool, but he will still only trust me.”

“You’ll play it beautifully,” Solo interjects.

Illyas straightens. “My point is none of this works without me.” He turns a cold glare on Solo. “So I expect a better attitude from your agent, Mr. Sanders.”

Voice like concrete, Sanders agrees: “You’ll get it.”

Solo flashes his handler a winning smile.

Gavriella could be hosting a dinner at a country club for how relaxed she looks holding her tea aloft. “This partnership is off to a wonderful start.” That she says it with such relish is all the more reason to worry.

•••

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses why in this AU the German asset is given a seat at the table and an elevated responsibility? Whomp, whomp. Sexism.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve taken some liberties with the German and Russian versions of Gaby and Illya’s names for the sake of the AU. Gabriella and Illya aren’t exactly standard spellings anyway, so I figured no one would mind terribly. :)
> 
> All you gallya writers out there, consider signing up for the TMFU holiday exchange hosted on ao3! The sign-up is [ here ](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/TMFUGiftExchange2016) and open for a week. 
> 
> All my graphics, vids, and mixes for gallya can be found on my [tumblr](http://blueincandescence.tumblr.com/search/otp%3A-i-need-a-partner+bluemade).


End file.
